Let In The Morning Light
by drakontion
Summary: Solas/Lavellan sleepy fluff, with a side of Dorian. Title comes from the movie "The Fountain", because I was listening to the soundtrack when I wrote this. Xibalba is pretty much my Solas theme. I thoroughly recommend it. FYI if you prefer I also have an AO3 account where all my works are as well - same name as here: /users/Drakontion/pseuds/Drakontion


Dorian was no stranger to noises coming from the rotunda at all hours. He wouldn't say he was used to it, as such, so he did huddle further into his little nook and brought his book up higher, the better to hide behind its fragile shield. If it wasn't the blasted birds' incessant squawking it was the many runners passing through the library, quick feet pattering up and down stairs as they passed. The sound of hesitant Elvish or the quick, contained bursts of frost and storm from downstairs countered Leliana's annoyed comments to her agents and cooed endearments to her birds upstairs. It was the lack of the former tonight, however, that had alerted him.

The stream of Elvish, incomprehensible, musical babble as it was, had faltered some time ago and had now stopped completely. Dorian put down his book, cocking an ear. No, definitely silence. It was... worrying. Far be it from him to say that their lovely Inquisitor was in any danger from the elven apostate, but, well... Given Solas' reticence at talking about anything but the Fade, and his peculiar abilities at manipulating rift magics, and his strange views on personal freedoms and the state of the elves... Not to mention _her_ strange fascination with anything and everything to do with him... Well. It was concerning at the least.

Carefully he marked his place in the book, giving it a loving pat as he retrieved his staff and stepped quietly towards the stairs. No, he definitely wasn't tiptoeing, thank you very much. A Tevinter mage, let alone this Tevinter mage, _never_ tiptoes. Nonetheless, he _was_ very quiet.

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped, took a deep breath, and readied his flames - just in case, of course - and peered around the doorway. No one at the table. No one at the half finished mural, or on the scaffolding. There was the quietest susurration to his right, because _of course_ that was the last place he looked, and he turned his head slowly, prepared for the worst.

He was not prepared for this, however. On the settee, curled as closely as lovers were wont to do, were Solas and the Inquisitor. Her head nestled into his lap, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, one arm thrown around the apostate, while her free hand curled palm upwards, defencelessly open. Solas was curled over her slightly. He had his fingers tangled into her hair, one braid already undone and brushed backwards from her face, while his long fingers slowly, deftly, worked on the other.

Dorian took a breath, ready to say something, but Solas spoke first.

"She fell asleep. While we were talking. In the midst of a lesson."

His quiet, smooth voice was a curious mixture of amusement, affront, and resignation. And then he looked up, looked directly into Dorian's eyes, and the Tevinter mage stopped in his tracks, heart clenching in sympathy and... want. For Solas' face was branded with such a look of wonderment, such tenderness, such confusion; his eyes fairly shone with the multitude of feelings.

And then his face closed over, hiding those feelings away, those signs that their aloof companion was just as human (so to speak) as the rest of them; and he looked down at the sleeping Inquisitor in his lap again.

"I could not bring myself to move her," Solas added, sounding slightly embarrassed now.

Despite himself, Dorian smiled. "I completely understand," he said huskily. "Do you, uh," he cleared his throat, quietly, "think you will need a hand to get her up to her rooms?"

Solas bridled at that, just the tiniest amount, and Dorian smiled to himself. "No, thank you," the elf replied, firmly. His shoulders hunched over her just that little bit more.

Grinning broadly now, Dorian took a step backwards. "Well, you know where I am if you need me."

There was a quiet snort from the settee and Dorian took his leave of the two elves, striding (quietly) back up the stairs. He settled his staff back in its customary position by his chair and took up his book again, smiling as he continued to read. No, nothing to worry about there, it was absurd to consider otherwise. One could not harm someone one was so obviously smitten with. His smile softened, saddened, and he closed his eyes. At least someone was happy...

Downstairs, Solas continued his unhurried unbinding of his lady Inquisitor's hair, softly untangling thick locks and patting them back into place, smoothing the pads of his fingers gently over the soft skin of her cheeks, tracing the slightly raised lines of her vallaslin on her forehead. It would be a simplicity to spend all night learning the contours of her face, memorising the sweep of her ears, studying the soft plushness of her lips, losing himself in the depth and richness of her hair, scented as it was with herbs. In her sleep he dared what he could not bring himself to do while she was awake; he dared to indulge in her while the warmth and wonderment in her eyes could not remind him that he could not, should not, tumble headfirst into this soft, warm, desperate abyss.

"_Ma vhenan_," he whispered, and even in sleep she responded, lips curving gently as her arm tightened its hold on him, and his heart was lost to her, again. And so he stayed with the sleeping Inquisitor on his lap, as his legs slowly grew numb and his hands slowly revered her and his heart slowly overflowed.

Some time later, in that rare quietest moment after midnight but just before dawn, when the birds had all (finally) fallen asleep for their allotted hour, the runners had stopped running, the agents had stopped reporting, and Leliana had disappeared to whatever hidey-hole she called a bedroom, Dorian, his head still buried in his book, heard a noise from downstairs. This time he _did_ unabashedly tiptoe over to the railing, looking down.

Solas had extricated himself from the Inquisitor's sleeping demands and stood over her, looking at her with exquisite gentleness and affection. He bent down, scooping her up effortlessly into his arms (and when did the elf become so strong, Dorian wondered), tucking her head against his chest, kissing her forehead when she murmured and stretched in protest.

"_Enera, emma lath_," he said to her, softly, and she gentled against him. "_Ar ven na_."

And he carried her, slowly, carefully, a treasure, from the room he'd painted for her, to the room she was given as her own, as the slow wash of morning crept over Skyhold.

Upstairs by the railing Dorian watched, lingering even after they'd gone, and sighed. "There," he said to no one in particular, "goes either the greatest love story or the greatest tragedy of our age." The birds upstairs ruffled their feathers, either in agreement or refutation he did not know, and he turned and left them, retreating to the solitary safety of his book, his chair, and his quiet corner alone.

* * *

Elvish!

Ma vhenan - my heart (really, you should know this by now, being Solavellans!).  
Enera - sleep (derived from uthenera, long sleep).  
Emma lath - my love.  
Ar ven na - I have you.


End file.
